Tuesday, October 09, 2012

The wedding was to have taken place at the spout, at the fish mouth of the fountain, where the ice had stopped its tumble from the bubbler, that in summer entertained the old and the children and caused the others to look for pennies in their pockets and purses, pennies to cast to the feet of nudes. Parish priest passed over, the pastor was to have given the order of service and the man, the groom, a handsome daredevil of rectitude, was to have given his hand to the woman, the bride, the statuesque caregiver of whispers. G. had had this in mind the entire time, asking how does this? wearing white mink for winter, before supper. Given savings. The running arm of love of one man for one woman who saves him, each day mattering a little more than the next, each day mattering a little more than the last. Each day mattering more than the thirst. How in this loving matter only loving matters. The man, the woman, the footpath. The lovers heard early in the morning at their water. Pouring water for coffee from the tap. Arriving graciously, cautiously, warily, safely to nest. Talk of love on the phone. It was an easy conversation. The love was a bumper crop. The love was coming out noodles through the receiver. He loved her more than he had ever loved anyone. His happiness was complete. She let him more than she had ever let anyone love her. The happiness was a tablecloth for a picnic. The happiness was the carpet in the hallway. The happiness was the wall behind the painting. The happiness was the sky behind the cloud. The happiness was the seating in the Saab. The happiness was the carrier, the weekend, the chimes. The happiness was not among the people or women who were to have witnessed it, who could not be clear about or without it, who were in it, whose own happiness was phrased in book order—she, her happiness was to have been a seal within eternity, in the Wednesdays of life.

Tuesday, October 02, 2012

Examples of fears I live with: You are a traveler. When I returned to my hometown, I started going to A.A. This was preprogrammed in me by a therapist who due to her religious background tried to require it of everyone in her clinical office who drank. I had been asked to go to a therapist due to “bipolar disorder,” something I was told I had though I didn’t have mood swings—rapid, horizontal thoughts followed by slow reactions. I had vertical liftoffs and low electrolytes. At its peak, I felt like a helium balloon that had stopped at the ceiling in my living room and drifted downward but did not deflate.

When you first learn of bipolar or other mental disorders, you are hit: The doctor believes you have a major mental illness for which there is no test or cure. Later, you realize more. Therapists make money, doctors do, pharmaceutical companies do. With one or two strikes against one and credits easily erased, could I—could anyone—emerge not-parked from that economic-underground-airport-tunnel system? Having friends helps, but what if you have low-balling, Hollywood-style friends? What if you or your friends have moved?

A.A. presupposes that newcomers to the group have done bad things to other people. They think it makes a better story instead of a worse one. On the whole, my life, as only I could have known it, defied drinking stereotypes. It had pleased me in remarkable ways. Once you agree to begin A.A., it is expected that you will stay amongst them for life. Here, except for pockets in the Midwest, people in general are TV-heads who rarely read except self-help and who show little appreciation for the arts.

There, meaning South, my drinking (mostly beer) was in the spirit of friendship. We went to an evening actor’s bar that was not violent and not a pick-up joint. Actors met there after rehearsal. There was a pool table, a jukebox, lit candles on small tables. No one had a car accident until once. Hardly anyone was stopped by police. I went there too often: That was what I had done. Worse, I didn’t know it might be lowbrow to go out more often than my friends or to go out alone. My friends didn’t know that my therapist disallowed boyfriends except hers. She expected me to desert my life for 12-Step rec rooms even before anyone had introduced cocaine. Celibacy was her idea of birth control, something we had had excellent instruction in as teenagers at the teen clinic where I had lived. I didn’t suspect her of these subtexts, but I felt vaguely defiant. I didn’t feel like watching TV after a day of grading papers and writing. In that mix of sports and religion, TV was what there was of virtue. I thought bars were nicer.

There were a few other “wrongs,” depending on how far A.A. wanted to take it. I had ever had sex without being married. Some of the A.A.s were having divorced “sober sex.” One of those, a self-regarding sex goddess and mother of two Asian-American children, had started dating a retired African-American football player while still married to her Chinese doctor husband. She had a friend in Hollywood, whose publicity photo she flashed at women’s dinners while urging sex on everyone. I believed her coaxing us was healthy, and she needed a team to keep her culturally challenging life as a single mom going; besides me, her team were single moms without teams. She was a realtor, who, like lawyers, made money at divorce. I was not a landowner. At first they pitied me for it. Later, they wanted to skewer me for it. Sex, as I realized not without embarrassment, was the privilege of divorced landholders. The group’s few marrieds slept in separate rooms.

Outside the story: my feminist approval of the realtor as a woman in business; my later sense of her pretense as Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct; my feelings of friendship for her and the other members of the group; my affair with a man whose wife had suggested it, who was herself, as I left out then, attracted to black men; his later decision to have children with a woman who was next in the group; my caretaking propensity for alcoholics, heightened after I left the meetings fully programmed; my failure to find other or paid work. (Writing is not work.)

The women, including me and except the sex goddess, had fallen to domestic violence. Those women were fat. Violence, including spiritual violence, was protected in the A.A. meeting. The men were universally passive about reports of it, and the women tried to be serene. I started to realize that the schisms between sex and sex and violence had contained hypocrisies related to being Catholic or to inter-religion, when I tried to leave. Without relapsing, I had a serious breakdown in my isolation. Many of my friends had been Catholic, and I had left myself little place to turn. My best friend, speaking long distance, called me a loser. She and her boyfriends—numerous and simultaneous—would be more successful and married. Her drinking would not lead to A.A.

When people demand a bad story, one with murders and suicides in it, ordinary sinners who had liked church as I had, might feel caught as under a lamp. I postulated that in our places, Jews and Catholics had been like the ink on the page, the words, the lines. Protestants had been like the spaces, the paper, the page. Protestants watched in the setting but not each other in the setting—we got to the point of staring straight ahead—quiet and forgetting to tell the story to our page. We were sheets. Some of us were trees that fell in the woods. We would tell the middle of the story, stories about purpose and the quiet in life, about age, about the long span between birth and death. They would tell stories about birth and death. They—?—would live well day to day, even happily, and had many friends, but nothing compared in pleasure to the day the switch came, a day to ditch friends.

My writing teacher wrote that the Holocaust (what I thought of) is not the only or not necessarily “the disaster” in Maurice Blanchot’s The Writing of the Disaster. I learned from attending A.A. that recovery from A.A. is never possible.

A woman feels burdened to spend an hour with her friend since they are not men. Now, to write that with all the artistic command of language I ever thought I’d had.

Appears in slightly different form July 8, 2011 and April 20, 2014 at Fictionaut

Monday, October 01, 2012

Could someone msg. me? I am lost. Gioia is establishment. My agreement to review Side/Berry's Outside Voices
came before Berry's essay and companion responses appeared, that were
met mostly with quiet. It occurred to me, as a reader, that the essay
itself is quiet. Now it seems Side/Berry are closer to naming names
than Berry does in the original essay and as Perloff does (to my
content) in her response. I am not a self-identifying poet and not a
poeticist. Argotist has issued my ebooks. Does that position my name or
my writing against the avant garde poets and poeticists who Side/Berry
say are to blame and for what? Prosetics is my term I put to use in
2001. Poets who formed the New Narrative in the 70s include
writers/poets whose work I value a lot, yet they are in a type of
poetics group surrounding narrative that seems to include writers/poets
other than or unlike me. My idea of prosetics, since it turned out I
was alone in it, is in practice and not a theory.

New
Narrative I think is Acker, though it joined her more than she it [and]
it seems she was friendly to it, and Kevin Killian, Dodie Bellamy,
Eileen Myles?, and others, poets and poeticists, included in Gail
Scott's edited essay collection called Biting the Error: Writers Explore Narrative, published by Coach House in 2004, based on the archives of Narrativity,
where I had posted a call for essays on prosetics in 2001, that went
unanswered except by a graduate student studying fiction at Naropa.
Mark Wallace had asked to co-edit, but the prosetics essay anthology I
had envisioned stalled.

Later
I started a movement to define experimental fiction called WπHπAπT,
and the two men I invited in an email to join did not reply, and I did
not follow up. The blog post I titled WπHπAπT is based on that email
and [was] shielded from view at Ana Verse. It is not a manifesto
but asks whether experimental fiction must include territory besides
"nonlinear marginalized sex writing," as described in many reviews
online of Biting the Error, reviews that turned out to be perhaps
sales-sexy but incomplete in describing the book. WπHπAπT with its pi
signs denotes the way the inquiry felt and follows in strategy those
inventors in language I estimate highly. The Buffalo &Now had no
panel on fiction. Eudora Welty as innovative writer I wanted to place
first in my volume. It's on the notecard in "Hoss Men" in my ebook
Jeffrey Side pub'd at Argotist in '10. Belladonna had a conference in
NY in '09 including 100 participants and turned down "Hoss Men" for
inclusion, saying that it had sparked lively discussion (in email? in
person?) on the panel, who decided that I (Ann Bogle) didn't know what
the essay was about. I wrote it in New York in '08 and moved in '09 to
my birthplace in Minnesota. Ben Marcus wrote about experimental fiction
in Harper's in 2005.

Monday, September 24, 2012

I've had email problems recently so don't know if my last email reached you. I had asked what if anything you both felt was new re: prosetics volume since I scoured the web in 2001. An answer to my question came today in the form of Biting the Error, an anthology from 2004 from the editors of Narrativity where I had posted a query in 2001. You probably already know this. I read several reviews of the book, and it seems the New Narrative, begun in CA in the 1970s, was a retort to L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E writers (excuse me for omitting equal signs); its practitioners by extension today are sometimes queer and transgendered and for some of them, the goal is sex writing. The sex of writing. On sex writing, more in a moment. About LGBT, there's little on the web about transgendered wo/men, and by that I do not mean wo/men who wish to become the other sex surgically nor who believe themselves to have been born the other sex or transvestites. I mean transgendered as in transgressed, to the point of not feeling membership in one's own or the other gender -- or perhaps gender transcended --personally or aesthetically. On sex, what more is there to say about American censorship? I write sex fairly well, and could, perhaps should, but it isn't what I was thinking about censorship -- elitism, politics, aesthetics, beliefs, competition -- when I was thinking it in the early 90s. I went to ebr and started reading archives, something I hadn't done in a while. There has been quite a lot of new scholarship on postmodernist writing practices among African-American writers. That I'd followed in the form of African-American modernism or post- by definition. I'm at this point thinking there's less reason to do an anthology of essays unless we have something "other" to add to the argument that personal cultural marginalization creates/demands formal experimentation. It -- experimental -- has been defined as marginalization for now. Linearity is reportedly a bugaboo in Biting the Error, and according to one detractor, the book doesn't pin down what fails whom why -- writer/reader -- when and when not, in "linear" narration. I don't know if you saw Zadie Smith's dismissal of postmodernism in the recent NYR of B – postmodernism has concluded as a limited experiment, she writes. I see much more than she to love about writers such as Swift and Barthelme and Borges and Calvino and Lorrie Moore, and in the shorter fiction forms. There are hidden topics -- one is failure, either of the artist to create significant art -- to claim or suggest aesthetic or other marginalization as a limitation unrelated to that -- or for the art to fail to succeed with a wider audience. And commercial issues. WπHπAπT is the change in language practices that people are wary of or unable to control or define, especially in terms of prose/fiction? Defined as: Style, design as opposed to form, though "formal" creeps into usage, as in "formal innovation." Even as "etiquette." Dismissed as "voice." But look, a writer I met here who wrote a memoir of her family is teaching experimental writing around the country. It's not based on how she writes but perhaps on whom she likes socially or whom she reads. I read another roster of names of professors of experimental writing -- one I went to school w/ who wrote in the modernist and Southern traditions – yet whose practice pieces read like he was imitating Mark Twain. That was young or early, a difference. I imitated, too, one writer per story, for 12 stories –- I’m guessing -- including Barthelme after he had died, like a daughter impersonating a father. Prose inventors. Prose inventions. Inventions in prose. We could invent a litmus test for that and explicitly declare what it is. Or not.

I wrote too soon that I could get financing. I am more solvent than in 2001. I'm caring for a nasty alcoholic day and night and meeting many people while befriending few -- I can't easily use the phone at home because he's so often ranting unprintables. The computer is supposed to be off-limits, but I prevail and use it, anyway amid a hailstorm of accusations that using a computer is the real mental illness & that bipolar is fake. A din. A stinking and loud place. He must be the “producer.” Am possibly moving possibly an hour faster than here on the Hudson -- details pending. Not to a man, for a man nor myself a man.

I'm working here w/ a Stanford Ph.D. who thought of everything 7 years after my frame of reference though she's 7 years older than I. Stanfords apparently don't believe in cw as training and have tons of academic cw credits and credits w/ the non-academic poetic community. To the point now of thinking that the only point is to write as well as I can.

The hoss men selected one natural light blonde and two Asian-brunettes for young motherhood and timely publishing. I was a dark Swedish blonde—not gone gray—with a total of four fiancés and a Scottish name meaning “ghost.” “Fiancé” could land a redhead a teaching post, but could it land her a son-book on deadline?

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

It was women, finally. RB was my teacher in Houston. She had built a reputation as a novelist, which she cared about more than the reputation she had built as a feminist. When she was my teacher, she wrote a “blockbuster” turned into a movie starring Meryl Streep and Liam Neeson, but it wasn’t a story I cared about: a perfect white upper-middle-class family to whom one bad thing takes place and the ensuing complications -- what they lose. In reality, RB was [sophisticated and] a down-to-earth earth mama type I personally liked. She had a little shrimp of a husband who was good to her and an educator in his own right, though not a professor, an educator of high school students, and two grown daughters, who had, naturally, all made good decisions in life.

Our student group were seen as people who had almost all come from bad families. The school picked the handful of perfect cheerleaders who had grown up -- we were ten years past high school -- and promoted them to careers as poets and writers. The rest of us they duped, paid us a pittance to work 60-hour weeks and left it at that. Economics is so very important to my discussion.

We were taught, via United Church of Christ and in our early Presbyterianism (as children), that we have one life -- not many, not karma (which is from Hinduism and should not be correlated to Christianity), not afterlives, though there is an afterlife. In our tradition, afterlife was “transcendence and light” and hell was “exile from God.” "Transcendence" meant without bodies, as did "exile." Soul was elemental to worship; spirit meant harmony in the beauty and peace of nature. My religious, yet private inner interpretations were good for me as a child, not harmful. Religion becomes even more important later, since it is more likely to include rather than to exclude people, as employment excludes.

Class is an issue. Those who knew where they wanted to find themselves later had boasted -- your father was a lawyer; Leni’s was land rich; Rona would marry -- and planned accordingly. I had not boasted about all the professions that were in my extended family: my father a corporate microbiologist, teachers, farmers, dentist, chemist, photographer, woman physicist, psychiatrist, business woman, women-behind-the-men, behind the women and children, news broadcaster for Time-Life, and the others. Little financial help came from home due to my mother’s tight rein on finances.

No one encouraged me otherwise: I needed to earn a low wage to survive. You and Leni saw yourselves as the rich girls in the group and didn’t help us psychologically toward survival. Men needed us to be lower than they. The men I knew were not prospering financially, often, but were in the arts. I was not raised to “marry for money,” either, so it did not occur to me to try to do so -- I gave all of it away -- help especially -- for free and got little help in exchange. I had to file for bankruptcy. Rich men I met later wanted to be patriarchal toward me, and I was and am resistant to that, still.

If even one person had known me better: my mother, my father, you, Rona, Leni, other friends, Barry -- someone might have learned that I had wanted to major in comparative literature, not in English, and not in English THREE TIMES, but no one did know me well enough, and there were no academic advisors at any of the schools I attended except at Binghamton, and my “advisor” there was not paid to be an advisor; she just was one, my professor in Shakespeare and creative writing, since it was needed, and she realized it. That degree (M.A.) was my favorite.

These were all mistakes -- not knowing even one person who knew me was a mistake, one you had not detected, and you were likely the most astute (about the psyches of other people) of all the people I had met up to that point, perhaps still. No one taught me to pursue what I wish, what I most want. I did that in terms of sexuality, because that was taught -- to define our sexualities -- but we were not taught to define ourselves outside of sexuality and writing.

It is gay, another gay thing, that gay men have sexuality, and no one else, almost no one else, does. Women are not allowed to have their own sexuality, still; it always creates cataclysms and judgment if she does. And most men are conformists and fetishize the women’s bodies and demand that they be crafted and petite and free of body hair, heads dyed blond. Or else they are VERY mean, indeed.

It is still my sexuality, to be with a man, and I stick to it. The ex-Catholics involved with giving therapy turned that into an illness, one treatable at 12-step groups: heterosexuality. They have no message for me. Those "doctors" were supposed to be nuns and nurses, so they became high-paid “therapists” instead and converted each drive inside someone to illness, disregarding sin and traditional teachings unless it came from other world religions. I do not place you in their group as a therapist because your training was so extensive by comparison to theirs -- they really had none in us nor we in them -- but they are supposed to supervise us.

None of them knows a thing about employment. They ought to be held accountable for leaving their religion so sloppily, for insisting on a privilege system that doles out joy and families and physical comforts and appropriate work to the few, while reserving great swaths of bad life for the many. It is not something that is supposed to be able to happen to trained people -- more trained than they are -- yet it does.

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

For about four years, between 1987 when I wrote a 120-page novella, and 1991, when I wrote a 300-page literary opus that dealt in God, Hamlet, Oedipus, and a shielded version of my love life and that clinged to my deepest desire to love and respect humanity, I suspected that I might have been molested as a child by my father. The suspicion was fearsome at first; nonetheless, I quickly accepted it as an excusable aspect of family life. I was much more ferocious on the subject of adult male violence against women who were too trusting of them. After I was attacked in my apartment, I asked my father, in near hysteria, whether he had done such a thing. "No," he said emphatically, an answer I have upheld to this day. I was too beside myself to tell him about the recent attack, out of a different sort of worry or fear. My father was a good but not a rich man, a microbiologist not a doctor, a churchgoer not a Jew or an atheist, a WWII army veteran who stayed in the US while his cousin was shot down over France. We were living in holocaustal times, just following the first US attack on Iraq. That nervous, yet important exchange, not the best and fortunately not the last in what had been a dear father-daughter interest, was not on record.

Six months later, when two fellow graduate students took me to a psychiatric "hospital" in west Houston, no one mentioned false or blocked memory theory, but I was drugged. The woman graduate student was a Republican from southern California and told me it was CIA. I had worried intently that the graduate students at the school I attended were document thieves and village copiers, and to some extent, I know that they were kids; a few of them were wonder kids.

I realized, but not in time to save my own or his life by thought or deed, that the block or difficulty was my own in living in our times. No one I knew deserved my love or trust, except my touchingly humble father and a very small and unrelated group of good souls I had had the positive fortune to know. Instead, I had trusted too many for too little reason. I had given too much ear, when less ought to have been required. I had withheld my dislike too often. I had learned to be a minor to every major whiner around. Life might have kept its curve had I cultivated my heart and not only my mind.

What is a blog? What is a bogle? What is a day off from doing nothing? From "nothing doing." What is a sun sign? What is a moon? What is a tsunami? What is a fraction? What is caring disorder? My favorite therapists (of eleven) were one, Murray, M.D. (adjustment disorder & suburban housewife neurosis at 17 -- there were violent boys in our neighborhood who had enacted domestic abuse against me, perhaps as witnessed in their houses and about which few could actually afford to care since the alternative in education terms would seem to have been boys' schools all over again); four, Ms. Siebert, MSW (who resembled a happy, well-adjusted suburban housewife and mother herself and who served as a mother for me in urbania); five (Dr. Hall, a terrific male psychologist who gave no diagnosis but who suggested something my adorable friends got later -- a longer form of psychoanalysis intended for writers and artists), six (a psychiatric resident named Griff who refrained from diagnosing after a domestic assault, even though I told her that that plus writing were causing me to feel uncharacteristically religious); eight (Susan K., MSW); nine, (my all-time favorite, Deb Otto, MSW) and eleven (Dr. Honebrink, Ed. D.). Total years in therapy: Exactly eight. My worst therapist was number 10, Daniel Carlson, M.Div. He mocked me for wearing nice clothes into the city and wanted me to list every lousy person I had ever met, something I refused to do. My seventh therapist, in retrospect, was Micki Fine, M.Ed.

Micki acquired me after Dr. Alan Hurwitz had diagnosed me with bipolar disorder in 1991. Religion and writing were related to mental illness, afterall. I had hoped I had just been hungry. Micki diagnosed me with PTSD right off, as if she were in a little quarrel with psychiatry. For three years, she got me to go faintly where I did my work, and she sneered at what I did for play: visit a quiet actors' bar. When I got a boyfriend three years later, she diagnosed me with a need for five twelve-step groups (AA, Alanon, Sex Addicts, Co-Sex Addicts, and Coda). My Ph.D. was toward English not toward chastity. She might have said to me, as my boyfriend's mother had said to him, 'You're not an alcoholic; you're a friendoholic." Or, "You sure are attracted to Catholics, aren't you?" But she didn't say that. My Catholic drinking friend, who had the same therapist, had five boyfriends, not five 12-step diseases. She was without diagnosis beyond having had a violent dad, her PTSD dating back to childhood; other writers we knew, gay or straight, had what is usually termed by the uninterrupted as "lovers." Love to the Catholic clinician sounded like a lifelong disease in certain men and women who are unauthorized to have it with members of the opposite sex.

Many years have flown by since, many of them without my active participation. Without meaning to or wanting to, I have ''achieved" eight years of adult celibacy; the only good one of those was my first in sobriety. My pelvic area aches for interior toning, for massage. I have dull-looking skin and my muscles look like loners. Micki was wrong about love and sex being only for the designated or the few and to speak of them as unnecessary.

Almost everyone we knew was wrong about beer. Whereas before, I had accepted the general definition of alcoholic as someone who drinks a lot of beer, I now know it to be a mixed determination. In fact, I now know that beer drinkers are better people, even if they do run into aches and groans associated with their favorite form of sour dough. True, they're likely poorer people, but the men are more handsome. The women are a little swelly, perhaps, and may run an occasional sinus infection, but isn't it better to drink a few beers than to pill-pop (as if for recreation), to let her get a little braggy in her laugh now and then, her teeth a little bucked, than to brand her a bad mother when she isn't even a mother and wasn't one and will not now be one, despite a furious insistence on who she was as a person (I was a native Minnesotan Swedish/English/Scottish American Protestant young writer!) and a glorious capacity to reproduce still? Ice cold milk, milk with ice in it for me, then. Rounds.

Saturday, August 18, 2012

Maybe you'll friend me still. That would be just. You friended that gal who teaches at Normandale, a friend of a deep friend of mine in Chicago, a serious secular religious poet in Joliet, Bill Yarrow. Feminine wiles? Jane Bowles. I'll go back on my Scottish oath re: Olga Kaymashnikova, the escort from Moscow, who inspired my best friend in writing his novel but who later demystified their union by asking $3.5 K an hour for her son or two, Nikolai. I do not agree with feminine wiles, not in the long run. I like men to be big time, deep set men who love deep set women. I wrote today at my Facebook page, thinking of you a bit because Stephen Dunn's poetry about divorce was in your bookshop in St. Paul:

(Based on another photo at Laura Hinton's profile page): "Evie Shockley is so mild. I met her in an elevator in Atlanta. She did not grow shockingly in five years. She is protected, a garden herb, and herb is better than hosta. I met Stephen Dunn in the same elevator. I was shocked, can you believe that? by Hilda Raz's son's speech on the panel where Dunn had described his date with Liza Minnelli. Hilda Raz lost a daughter. Her son gained a persona, backed by biological components. I was impressed at the book fair by his male-pattern baldness. A biological genius. And yet, I was reduced and in the elevator mentioned crying about it, about ordinary women, to Dunn, who had already known about Raz's son."

Leo Kottke is my friend. He is my friend because he is decent, not for any other reason. I had lunch with him one day in Excelsior. I ate like a man, soup, as I always do. I tend to be thin at times yet eat without apology. He looked a little rueful when I told him that I have bipolar disorder, as if saying so would not work. Then I said a publisher released Janet Frame. And "fat chance that would happen." He knew Kay Redfield Jamison and said he was in a correspondence with her. I thought, she is a publicity researcher but in no way a primary creative genius, hers a middle path, research, fluent in English, talent at predicting pathological resistance to melancholy in artists after her revelations as a pseudo scientist, no Sylvia Plath, whose nature poems alone outstrip her. My doctor, Faruk S. Abuzzahab, is polite about Jamison who renamed the illness bipolar disorder though she did not go to medical school. I wonder what she and Leo corresponded about? I guess I thought he'd had (past) major depression, not bipolar. My old dad had died of cancer in '92, just after my d'x with bipolar. I loved him so much. Seven years later, I sat in an A.A. meeting at St. Luke's Presbyterian in Minnetonka, where I was baptized, why I despised cult leaders in the room. I told them he had died. It was obvious I was flipping out but not why. Daughter of a WWII reservist whose Wisconsin Synod Lutheran and Episcopalian lovers had suggested incest. Fucking Episcopalians! I didn't think anything like that even prior to my d'x in Houston, but silence dictated. I had told Christa. Christa was a Mexican-Irish gal from San Juan Capistrano. She had said, "Were you molested as a child?" And I had said, "Yes, I think so," but my "think" was not related to Freudian hysteria (I was not hysterical) but to the age of the molesters, who were fourteen.

If you don't friend me, I'll have no way to forgive you. Christa would say, "Offer it up!" I drove once, not expected, to my boyfriend's house in Sugar Land from Houston. Twenty-five miles. He acted amused when he opened the front door. I said, "I'm not stalking you. I love you," and he said, "Come in. What are you doing standing outside?"

Monday, August 13, 2012

[So] on Saturday in England Jeffrey Side split a hair using an exacto
blade. He proved in email correspondence reproduced on his blog, that he had
said in email that Bobbi Lurie's email to him long ago had become increasingly
psychotic. He had not said in email that she was psychotic. I relayed
his opinion to her in the past without forwarding her those emails, and I told
her that he had said "emails ... psychotic," not her, but she insisted
that it was the same. His diatribes against me use her to make his
points. And now she is in the minor poetry news in a third-person
light. Side didn't answer her email yesterday. His long blog post
accuses me of incompetence and "malicious gossip." He blocked my comment to the post at
his blog. He issued my two e-chapbooks of stories. He did that
without ever commenting, even once, about the work in the e-chapbooks. I
had to depost "American Candid" at Ana Verse about midnight last night, including its yesterday's emailed comments from Bobbi Lurie, when I learned that she had not even seen Side's blog post about her until then though I had told her about it on the phone. Nor has she fully read it yet. I don't blame her for not keeping Internet minutiae clear as she packed for her family's cross-country medical trip for her son. The offence, this time, that Side documents in his diatribe, is
the difference between "her email" and "her," the failure to perceive
it mine, he says. He does not note her belief that there is no meaningful difference in view of the word "psychotic."

I thought, I need to depost "American Candid," the partial transcript of the Otherstream flaming thread that Side started against me on August 1 at FB
for digressing about prosetics and for posting a
fiction-related link at The Argotist Online. "American Candid" is
interesting to read for its prose behaviors. Side misreads in it in
front of everyone, though it moves quickly (it certainly moved quickly
when it was live), and men in the thread (participants are men except two) seem
to forget during it that the title of the thread is a flame. Whenever I
interject even there (the header has my name in it), one or more men accuse me
of hijacking again. Mostly, they talk about war in it. I like it as a
document of theater, live theater. I may repost it if I get full clearance again. [Reposted 9 p.m.] Bobbi, too, misread. She thought that in "American Candid," I had posted my correspondence with Side, though Side had done that. She says the
word "psychotic" is incriminating even in defense against it. She
emailed she could find a lawyer. I said, well, Side
feels justified in printing email correspondence to defend his
character.

Side and Bobbi had a correspondence that he didn't print that began in discussion of the British poet Veronica Forrest-Thomson. Side sent Bobbi quack remedies for cancer, she told me, and when she lived in London, she met many Brits who believed in false-hope remedies
such as those Side proposed to her.

"Take it outside!" as I relate in "American Candid" Zon said in 2001. To the outside, it seems men are on a side named Side,
and women are lurking.

Friday, August 10, 2012

Jeffrey Side contends that I "hijacked" threads and spammed with fiction-related links at the OtherStream and The Argotist Online groups at Facebook, yet he deleted one thread in which he contends my transgressions occurred. In another thread at OtherStream group, I deleted, though Jeffrey Side maintained he deleted, my comments about PROSETICS that intruded upon consideration of Dana Gioia's forthcoming review of Jack Foley's work. Tim VanDyke kindly sent me a partial transcript of Jeffrey Side's OtherStream thread titled against Ann Bogle. I abruptly left the OtherStream group after reading a comment by Chris Watts, formerly of Bard College, who typed that he planned to misattribute statements in that thread and to publish them online. I reread the partial thread a week later and decided it is in the genre LIVE THEATER. Here it is, verbatim (I love it that Side's typo is "form"):

The thread that Jeffrey Side
started August 1, 2012 at the OtherStream group at
Facebook:

[Thread header]: "I’ve had to remove
Ann Bogle from the Argotist FB group, as she was relentless in her
determination to carry on starting threads that were not poetry related, and
also “hijacking” other threads by posting comments not related to the threads’
topic matter. I explained to her that the Argotist group was solely for
discussion of poetry but she ignored me, and continued unrelentingly. I,
therefore, had no choice but to remove her form the group."

o Anny Ballardini I
like Ann Bogle, sorry she did that, but then I almost never follow this list,
because of Time, that is why.
6 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Ann Bogle Jeffrey, poets are my people, and poetry my reading, and poetics my
guide in considering prosetics. Poets consider developments in fiction less
than I consider developments in poetry. My security breach in broaching fiction
and creative nonfiction at The Argotist Online, where my poems have appeared,
the offense of it to you, has indirectly helped me to understand poetry's
segregation of genres, similar to the separation of prose narrative (fiction
and cnfic) and poetry in American creative writing programs and within most
literary journals. Genre is a passion for me, and I like to quote Lyn Hejinian,
"prose is not a genre but a multitude of genres."
5 hours ago • Like • 2
o
Anny Ballardini Well, we have prose poetry
5 hours ago via mobile • Like • 1
o
Ann Bogle PP/FF, the title of Peter Conner's anthology of prose poetry and
flash fiction, is another guide for me, both in considering musical
applications to prosetics and the differences between pp/ff.
5 hours ago • Like
o
Jeffrey Side Ann, your opinions on prose fiction are not offensive to me in the
least. They are just inappropriate subject matter for a poetry discussion
group. Why don’t you start an FB group for your ideas? I’m sure it will be
welcomed.
5 hours ago • Like • 2
o
Rich Haber hey jeff, here's an idea for you: fuck off, you pretentious fop. and
ann, why bother? my ex once gave me a miraculously helpful piece of advice -
never stay where you're not wanted.
5 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Rich Haber censorship is bad enuff from mainstream asswipes, but among artists?
it's totally shitbox
5 hours ago • Like • 2
o
Ann Bogle Jeff cross-posted his statement (above) at The Argotist Online then
removed me as a member of that group. May I request that you let The Argotist
Online group know that you have not canceled my voice and related posts at
OtherStream in case they care to respond directly.
5 hours ago • Like
o
Jeff Swanson Jeff, you wear a powdered wig and have a heart beauty-mark on your
face? I never imagined you like that.
5 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Rich Haber lol - what's language all about, if you cant stretch denotations
into connos, eh mate?
5 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Jeffrey Side I’ve always wanted a mate who doesn’t use punctuation.
5 hours ago • Like • 2
o
Jeffrey Side … apart from after the contraction “connos”, that is.
5 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Ann Bogle Rich Haber, I appreciate your awareness and support, but reserve the
imperative use of fuck for unnamed soldiers who kill, maim, and dislocate
civilians.
5 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Rich Haber whew, smells of authoritarianism in here. putz
5 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Jeffrey Side Yes, Jeff, Ann is right. I am not a soldier, and so to say “fuck”
to me is not right.
5 hours ago • Like
o
Rich Haber hmm, good point, ann. but i'm from bklyn. fuck isnt reserved at all.
i'm not reserved. wouldnt wanna be anything like it, neither, double negs not
withstanding. or understanding, fer that matter.
5 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Chris Watts Glad I stayed the fuck out of that one... I love you all, love
reading you all, so there.
5 hours ago via mobile • Like • 3
o
Jeffrey Side I never use four letter words unless I’m ejaculating.
5 hours ago • Unlike • 2
o
Rich Haber "...and I love ehhh vreee bahh deeee, since I fell in love with
YOU!"
5 hours ago • Like • 2
o
Jeffrey Side That’s the most sensible thing you’ve said up to now.
5 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Ann Bogle Rich Haber, one guy at an A.A. mtg. in St. Cloud gained the sympathy
of the group by clarifying that the U.S. had trained him to be a killer and he
had ret'd from Iraq and hit a man at a bar for which he was charged and
sentenced to attend A.A., itself a form of religion. I was in attendance with a
friend and told her before the mtg. I did not wish to identify myself as an
alcoholic, though it was a "closed" meeting, open only to
self-described alcoholics, and she said, say that you have a desire not to
drink alcohol, the only requirement of membership, so when it was my turn, I
said, "My name is Ann. I have a desire not to drink alcohol." My
presence that night was regarded a little suspiciously but I thanked them for
letting me attend at the request of my friend.
5 hours ago • Like
o
Ann Bogle So, there was my chance to say fuck you to a killer, and I didn't do
it. I thanked him and the others for letting me sit in the room as an
out-of-town visitor of my friend.
4 hours ago • Like
o
Rich Haber i've done some serious work, trying to reconcile my ambiguity about
our volunteer armed servicemen and women - kinda lengthy to jump into here. in
short, my feelings and thoughts surround those who would sacrifice their own
lives for their "countrymen"
4 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Rich Haber conflicting with nationalism vs one big world family
4 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Jeff Swanson Hm, that's interesting. Instead of sacrificing yourself for your
countrymen, you refuse to fight so that you may forge a relationship with your
world country. I like that.
4 hours ago • Like
o
Jeff Swanson Because god knows, these days it's not your "countrymen"
or "countrywomen" you're fighting for, but the Oligarchy who sent you
out to protect their interests.
4 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Rich Haber never said that, jeff. truth is, i dont have the guts to shoot
anyone. but the sad fact, that all these military families are so misguided and
confused, is just sickening. their bravery and loyalty is ignored - as in song
Universal Soldier.
4 hours ago • Like
o
Rich Haber and the oligarchy cant send soldiers if the soldiers wont go.
4 hours ago • Like
o
Jeff Swanson Of course, but why wouldn't they go? They want to be rich, right?
If you don't play the game, you don't maybe might gonna be rich someday, right?
So play the game, or we ain't gonna let you be rich, kid!
4 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Rich Haber you must be young. we antiwar activists started antiwar groups
INSIDE the military, during the viet nam "police action" - nothing
that size is happening now, but there is an iraq vets antiwar group, joined at
the hip, with the viet vets group and vets for peace group - very difficult,
getting soldiers to turn on their officers and say - Sir, that order is
illegal, Sir!
4 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Rich Haber joining the army isnt about getting rich. never was. they were the
lowest paid workers in the working class, worldwide. nowadays, different story,
with the corporatists transforming us into a military society - man, we are so
wayyyy off topic. so jeff, you are not the other jeff's alter-ego? another
cyber-identity, using another IP address?
4 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Jeff Swanson Dude, you're not thinking laterally. We play by the rules in this
country because we all want to stay in the game, and the game is getting rich.
Nobody wants to disobey, because then they get put in the penalty box, i.e.,
jail, and despite free room and board and all the sex you can stand, jail's no
fun.

And no, I am not Jeff
Side. If I was an alter ego of his, do you really think I'd call myself Jeff?
I'd call myself Rich Haber.
4 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Jeffrey Side I can vouch that Jeff is not me. I would never use the word
"dude" when addressing an older person than myself.
4 hours ago • Like • 2
o
Rich Haber lol oh u kids. i'm no military expert but we used to chant
"Just turn back if the orders are whack!" - the basis was that any
soldier is morally and legally bound to refuse to obey an order that is
"illegal" under the articles of war, as laid out in the geneva conventions
4 hours ago • Like • 2
o
Jeff Swanson In California, we call everyone Dude. It's a term of great respect
among our kind.
4 hours ago • Like • 2
o
Ann Bogle ANN BOGLE, ANN BOGLE is my blog post that links to Kevin Thurston's
blog, Fucking Lies (Polite Happiness) and a poem posted there written by Han
Scrable called "Scrable on Bogle." My correspondent, B'go, in
considering the poem Scrable wrote, offered lines Bob Dylan owned before he
gave them to the world. B'go writes, "I was thinking that as far as
extemporaneous prosody on cigarette shops that this was the gold
standard."
4 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Rich Haber omg AB at her best. oh ouch
4 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Rich Haber well u got yer Major Dudes and ur minor chords and it's just too
sadly bad when poetry sails and prosody fails, among cheers and jeers and what
have we heres
4 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Rich Haber rich, to day-job boss, "I'm soooo sorry I quit"
4 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Ann Bogle Dylan's extemporaneous prosody on cigarette shops the gold standard.
Jeffrey Side, this is what might be described as a "successful' thread
with its passions and participants loving and fighting. Do you feel it might
reach those academics you most hope to persuade of your arguments in poetics?
As I asked in WHAT at F'naut without your answer, who are they you most hope to
persuade? I claimed that in your recent jottings in comment threads on FB that
it seemed you had "enemies" in mind with names, you used the word
"enemy" to describe academic gatekeepers of post-avant (not your
word, that's Adam Fieled's) academic poetry. If you cultivated similar enemies?
Would that help your position academically? Protestant heritage not belief
causes me to fault behavior not men.
4 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Jeffrey Side The digressive development of this current thread (entertaining as
some of it has been) is the reason I removed you from the Argotist group.
3 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Rich Haber frumpified foppery, frugally fritting fruffery thru the tulips of
triangarulation - tut-tut, i say, get thee to a nunnery. whatta waste of good
oxygen.
3 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Luis Lemus Attica, Attica... #FistRaisedinSolidarity (smile) Aren't artists
supposed to stand together, fraternal bickering aside? I have read this and
other threads trying to discern the point of this brouhaha only to ultimately
conclude this is a tempest in a teacup. Make art, not war. The forums for
writer and artist are a pretty small sandbox; let's play together (smile).
Peace.
3 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Jeff Swanson Ann Bogle's extemporaneous prosody on Ann Bogle is the Ann Bogle
of this thread. Ann Bogle.
3 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Jeffrey Side I agree, Luis. Rich obviously doesn’t like me because I removed
Ann from the Argotist group for perfectly legitimate reasons. I can understand
his loyalty to her as a friend (I assume he is a friend) but there’s no need
for him to be abusive to me. Even Ann hasn’t resorted to that—at least not yet.
3 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Ann Bogle Jeffrey Side, you had represented (though I might have wanted an
editor in you besides) my e-chapbooks, so, for that career-related investment I
had made with you, I failed to defend Bobbi Lurie more fully (by disassociating
from you? retracting my e-books?) when you described her as psychotic in an
email. The links to my e-books are probably still working. Rachel Lisi designed
the cover of one of them, and Daniel Harris gave ten illustrations. All I
wanted to say, and you are avoiding the subject rather stupidly, is, and I said
it in more than one place and way, your poetics collection of essay, responses,
etc. and fight with Seth Abramson about it, did not name names in a way that
might have been useful in considering or applying your arguments. Your cry that
it went by not celebrated caused me to plunge in as a reader preparing to
review your email correspondence, Other Voices, with Jake Berry. Jake, in turn,
took a dip, a little swim, in my prosetics, and responded kindly. I am in your
coral as a writer, and you are revoking my digressive strategies. It seems
strange you represented my collections as e-books unless you were aligning
yourself in another silent debate in poetry.
3 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Ann Bogle And btw prosody is a system of versification.
3 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Rich Haber
digression=development=devolution=dissolution=de-salvation=salivation=spit=jackshit
3 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Jeff Swanson Scatological versification.
3 hours ago • Like • 2
o
Ann Bogle 59
3 hours ago • Like
o
Rich Haber ok, jeff, calling my dear friend bobbi psychotic is beyond whatever
shitball i rolled out for you. i'm not obliged to be polite because you deserve
human respect. you don't. you're just a waste of time. this is my last posting
to you, scumbag.
2 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Ann Bogle I feel sorry that Carol cannot select "like" for Jeff
Swanson's comment about volunteer army defending oligarchy. Carol Novack, love
you Carol, is broke, something she'd always feared but that was not likely to
occur in her lifetime, I told her, and it didn't. I miss Carol.
2 hours ago • Like • 3
o
Jeffrey Side Ann, I was unaware that the links to your ebooks were not working.
I will correct that. If I had intended to remove the actual ebooks I would not
have left them as listed on the site. If that is what all your silliness is
about, then you should have told me the links were inactive instead of causing
trouble here. I assumed you were more mature than this.

Regarding my saying
Bobbi Laurie was psychotic. I said her emails to me had become psychotic and
confusing to me, much like your posts here have been. Here is the email
exchange you and I had about it. The first email is my response to your asking
if I would do an ebook of her poems, which I initially refused to do, but later
agreed to.

Me:

I've had dealings
with Bobbi Lurie in the past, and to be frank it wasn't all that pleasant. Her
email exchanges with me became more and more psychotic and confusing, and her
tone and language were belligerent towards me. Sorry for my negativity, and I appreciate
your trying to help her out.

You:

Thanks for letting me
know of the experience you've had with Bobbi, as sad as it makes me to hear it.
I have had to make my way carefully with Bobbi myself, as I know her life
circumstances have not been easy, and she becomes suddenly distrustful. The
internet, especially, though she is a good writer there, sometimes even better
than good, at times deluges her with confusion.

Me:

The only way I could
consider doing an ebook for her is if you or Marc Vincenz act as intermediaries
for me.

You:

Sound good. Let me
know if there's anything we need to do first and when. Thanks so much, Jeff.
2 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Rich Haber in case anyone is interested, bobbi's son Noah just went blind and
she is recuperating from an ear operation. i will forward anything anyone wants
to send her.
2 hours ago • Like
o
Ann Bogle Jeffrey Side, I did not type that the links were not working.
2 hours ago • Like
o
Jeffrey Side You said I retracted your ebooks.
2 hours ago • Like
o
Luis Lemus Jeff (not to take) Sides: ultimately my loyalties lie with AB and
not C, as she is at the very least an acquaintance of long standing and someone
whose work I respect utterly. You also have some respectable offerings,
therefore urging respectful restraint and understanding on all sides. Abrazos.
2 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Ann Bogle Jeffrey Side, define "psychotic" then. You are wildly
evasive. Who knew you were wild? I wrote "distrustful" and you are
not? I wrote "confusion" and you are not confused. Bobbi knows about
this correspondence that Jeff quotes here, accurately (it is plain that Jeff
and I do not have day jobs), painstakingly, and ... okay, Princess Di ...
2 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Jeffrey Side Luis, I have nothing against Ann. She seems to think I retracted
her ebooks that I published, which I have not—the links to them are just
broken, which I will fix. This is the cause, it seems, for all the trouble she
is causing. All she had to do was email me, let me know the links were broken
and I would have fixed them.
2 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Bob Spryszak you're all wrong... the word fuck is an aphrodisiac. Every other
use is just silly.
2 hours ago • Like • 2
o
Rich Haber cant read either - "...I failed to defend Bobbi Lurie more fully
(by disassociating from you? retracting my e-books?) when you..."
2 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Jeffrey Side I am always confused by your posts, Ann.
2 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Rich Haber this is how wars get started. i'm outta the kitchen, cant take the
heat. bye.
2 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Ann Bogle Jeffrey Side, you are misreading. Or you misread quickly once. I
asked whether your refusal to issue e-book by Bobbi after you had engaged in a
long (?) personal correspondence with her, ought to have required (of me) that
I retract my e-books and dissociate from you. I have not stated that the links
are not working or that you retracted the e-books. You have stated that, and
you are misquoting me.
2 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Jeff Swanson There is more personality on display here than in a hundred
ordinary internet locations.
2 hours ago • Like • 2
o
Rich Haber ps - luis, you are a true peacekeeper. glad to make your
acquaintance.
2 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Jeffrey Side I thought you were complaining about the broken links. It seems
you are not. What you do regarding Bobbi is up to you. I did agree to do an
ebook for her, but refused to deal with her directly as I can’t get on with her
and nor she me. I asked you to act as go-between, which you agreed to. But I’ve
not heard anymore about the matter from you, until now.
2 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Rich Haber pps Bob Spryszak who is that guy in your ID pic?
2 hours ago • Like
o
Ann Bogle Jeffrey Side, in the real publishing world, writers have agents. Your
proposal to publish her e-book as long as there were a "sane"
chaperone was rejected, by her, in full awareness of your opinion of her
correspondence with you.
2 hours ago • Like
o
Jeffrey Side Well, Ann, all I can say is that you are very underhand showing
her my email behind my back. I hope you don’t do this with all your friends
emails.
2 hours ago • Like
o
Jeffrey Side By the way, I don’t think you are such a sane chaperone after all,
if you behaviour here is taken into account.
2 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Bob Spryszak Rich - it's Billy Sunday.
2 hours ago • Like • 1
o
David Simmer II I'm having taco salad for lunch!
2 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Ann Bogle Jeffrey Side, I related it to her, yes, without forwarding your or my
email about her to her. Here, I have fetched the Bob Dylan prosody cited above.
Fetch is a game even cats enjoy, mine did:
2 hours ago • Like • 1
o
Ann Bogle Bob Dylan wrote this: I want a dog that’s going to collect and clean
my bath
return my cigarette and give tobacco to my animals
and give my birds a commission.

I’m lookin for a
place that’s gonna animal my soul,
knit my return, bathe my foot and collect my dog,
commission me, sell my animal to the bird to clip
and buy my bath and return me back to the cigarettes.
2 hours ago • Like • 3
o
Jeffrey Side You are as mad as a hatter, Ann!
about an hour ago • Like • 1
o
Ann Bogle I left it a little vague in my writing to the board of Mad Hat re: my
position as creative nonfiction editor since 2008. I don't know whether I'll
stay or be fired or fade or move with Douglas Querl to Houston. Can the Board
(of four) fire someone they are not paying and who spent capital resources on
them? I withdrew my bid to work as p-t paid managing editor of MHR. I realized,
long story, that to work underpaid for MHR would be worse than not to be paid
at all.
about an hour ago • Like • 1
o
Jeffrey Side Seriously, Ann, why don’t you start your own FB group? Using other
peoples' groups and threads for your own aims is not fair.
about an hour ago • Like • 1
o
Ann Bogle OtherStream is Bob Grumman's wor(l)d, and he hasn't said no prosetics
yet.
about an hour ago • Like
o

Tim VanDyke Actually,
it isn't his wor(l)d, not solely at least. But it is so obvious you are trying
to drive an agenda home through everybody here. It is also obvious there are
plenty of other venues for your agenda. So the fact that you aren't using those
venues raises some questions.
about an hour ago • Like
o
Bob Grumman FacebookI love the word, Ann, but I don’t know exactly what it
means yet. Anyway, I’m not the one in charge here, so I wouldn’t be able to ban
it even if I thought it should be banned.
49 minutes ago via • Like
o
Ann Bogle Tim VanDyke, you are advocating self-censorship, I think, yet not of
Jeffey Side.
44 minutes ago • Like
o
Rich Haber S.O.P., when confronted with un-labeled genre-defying misun-named
disabuse of scrawly and unruly electronic blips fathomed within boxes of
windowlytic eye-bytes, the crowd will invariably ostracize and otherwise
pariah-cize and prioricize for demoltion, said practitioner of such
witchcraftery. giving up waiting for ?? among even the best of american
artists, where x = c, so no one has to guess at the cost of freedom
43 minutes ago • Like
o
Rich Haber wow, billy sunday. enigmatic for sure. a movie waiting to be made.
41 minutes ago • Like
o
Ann Bogle Bob Grumman, prosetics at Google still offers prosthetics as an
alternative and most of the links are for prosthetics. In WHAT at F'naut I
trace the origin of my using the word in 2001 (it was while visiting mIEKAL aND
at Dreamtime). I had arrived wearing a winter white wool coat carrying a tawny
leather briefcase full of prosetics notes and captured writings, and Zon
commented that I seemed like a Hollywood scout or agent, who needed, he said a
little later, "to roll in clean dirt." I could not stay out of
mIEKAL's lap, and Zon came in the office, where m. and I were collaborating in
html prosetics, and saw the way we were sitting, in m.'s lap facing him, and
Zon said, "Take it outside! Take it outside!"
35 minutes ago • Like • 1
o

Tim VanDyke I just
see you and your agenda petulantly and unnecessarily overstaying its welcome,
Ann. There are plenty of other places more suited to your needs. I don't think
asking a baker not to speak at a fundraiser for the physics department is
exactly censorship,
34 minutes ago • Like
o
Rich Haber anyone for a game of whack-a-mole?
29 minutes ago • Like
o
Ann Bogle Jeffrey Side, I'll ask that you preserve this thread and ask your
cohorts who are administrators to preserve it as welll, as the work laid here
has value, and if anyone of you knows a way to transfer this thread to a group
I start for Prosetics, I will transfer it.Tim VanDyke, fuck you, though you
probably haven't killed anyone yet. If you had said "barker" but you
said "baker" among physicists. My aunt, Frances Alsmiller, b. 1929 in
Wisconsin, was a physicist who worked on the Apollo Project and at Oak Ridge
and who was married for almost 50 years to a physicist named Tut Alsmiller who
worked by her side. They collected art.
13 minutes ago • Like • 1
o
Rich Haber just started reading WπHπAπT - history, eh? don't know how berry
fits into this, hope he comes out rosy, cause i like his music.
8 minutes ago • Like
o
Ann Bogle Jake Berry is up with p(rose)y and an American. I still hope to
review his correspondence with Jeffrey Side, published as Other Voices. Mark
Wallace, American candid!
2 minutes ago • Like
o
Ann Bogle 89 comments, 3 like this.
about a minute ago • Like • 1

[Thread continues (or not) in two groups, Otherstream and The Argotist Online, at Facebook. I am just a chick. How would I know what those men later wrote?]

After Carol moved from NYC to Asheville, she
attracted sane people whom she appointed to serve on the small board
that decides things for her endowed non-profit, Mad Hat. Her crazy
friends and faux relatives who formed around the journal must carry on
their baggage alone, without her as Mad Hatterish conductor. I am part
of a diaspora. I left my position as cnfic editor in protest of the way
the board treated Carol's friend and caregiver, Douglas Querl.
Goodbye, MHR, after four good unpaid years' work. All's well that
intends well.

[There was nearing a quorum of German speakers at Mad Hat, so I translated Ana Verse to German using the Microsoft translator embedded in the left sidebar]:

[Then I translated the German version back to English in Google translator]:

Healthy Hatters Review:

After Carol of NYC,
Asheville, she drew reasonable people they intended to serve the small
circuit board, the things for her prize-profit, Mad has decided. Your
crazy friends and relatives faux, which have formed around the magazine
on their luggage alone, without wearing a
Mad Hatterish conductor. I am part of a diaspora. I left my position as
editor in protest against the Cnfic Board Carols friend and supervisor,
Douglas Querl treated. Goodbye, MHR, after four good years of unpaid
labor. All is well, wishing well.

Letter from Ann Bogle to Buffalo Poetics Listserv on August 18, 2012 (excerpt):

"Alles ist gut, das will gut" is a partly censored item (the original paragraph in English was
censored twice; the machine-translated German version and its
machine-retranslated English version were not censored), both at Facebook Mad
about Mad Hatters' Review group by Marc Vincenz and due to his diligence at Fictionaut, where Carol Novack had asked me to administer a small
group for Mad Hatters' Review in the spirit of cooperation and Marc Vincenz had
later delegated to me the same duty. I got Marc his first job at Mad Hatters'
Review, co-editor in poetry, in the first week of October 2010, though he never
stated his job title that way. He stated on the Internet editor in poetry.
Carol Novack who might know that best besides the two of us has died. In her
will, she stated that her friend and caregiver, Douglas Querl, may stay at her
house, deeded to Mad Hat, a non-profit she formed, as long as he likes and that
her cats stay there as well and the house not be sold for 40 years. It was to
operate as a writers' retreat, overseen by Douglas or subsequent caretaker, and
meeting place for the Mad Hatters' Review staff past and present. The attorney
in Asheville who wrote the will that Carol signed, Robert Karriker, later
discovered that as a deceased person, Carol cannot decide what becomes of the
endowment or properties within the non-profit. The board of four or five (names
withheld) wrote Douglas an eviction letter, came to the house and removed the
cats and brought them to an undisclosed location (though there was a picture of
Clicquot on Facebook being nuzzled by the Asheville bank employee, friends with
Karriker, whom Carol met late in life).